The Survivors: Book One (55 page)

“I can do that without ripping all your hair out. The birds could make a nest with what you’ve thrown into the fire.”

Angela’s first thought was no, and she was shocked to hear her own eager voice. “Deal. You battle the tangles, I’ll roll.”

His surprised, happy look kept her from taking it back, and she surrendered the brush reluctantly when he held out a hand for it.

Marc moved behind her and knelt down, then began to gently work the tangles out. He started with the damp ends, aware of how shallow her breathing had become, how tense her posture was.

It was an uncertain moment for Angela, and she listened with a thumping heart, hearing leaves rustling in the soft breeze, the gravel crunching under Dog’s paws as he returned, panting. And all the while, her heart waited for the footsteps and gunfire, fear insisting Kenny could be here by now.

Dog sniffed their feet, their beds, and then curled up near the fire, eyes on the darkness, and Angela told herself to relax. The wolf would hear anyone sneaking around, even a Marine. Besides, she wasn’t really doing anything wrong. Marc was just brushing her hair.

By the time he had gotten a third of the way up, close to her small waist, Angela had adjusted and Marc eased down, legs on either side of her. She tensed again as his big body surrounded hers, but when he only continued to work on her damp curls, she went back to what she was doing.

Marc wondered if she would note today’s escape in her journal. She’d had him telling stories every night for the first few weeks, but hadn’t asked for one lately and he suddenly wondered why. Had his tale of betrayal and self-preservation during Katrina bothered her that much?

“Not so much your part, you followed orders. It just makes me sad all those people had to be hurt.”

Marc agreed. “I almost left the Marines over it. I mean, we could hear them screaming for help. How’s a guy supposed to live with that?”

Angela shook her head, wanting to comfort him, but afraid to say the wrong thing and break the peacefulness of their camp, knowing
“You signed with the wrong guys.”
wouldn’t help. She did the best she could, sure it wasn’t enough. “They wouldn’t let you; you were knocked out when you fought. Nothing you could do.”

Marc sighed glumly, wishing he had… He sighed. If he had shot his way out, he’d be dead now too.

Pop!

Angela jumped back into his arms as the log in the fire exploded into a shower of sparks, bodies brushing as they laughed.

Marc was pleased when she didn’t move away. He kept his hands working, almost holding her. When he finished, he laid the brush down and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You got that rolled yet?”

She held it up, and they both laughed at the misshapen joint. Angela’s stomach tightened at the feel of his warm breath on her cheek, but she didn’t pull away. “It’ll burn, but it won’t be pretty.”

He grinned, fishing in his pockets for a lighter. When he leaned closer to hold out the flame, their bodies made full, willing contact for the first time in fifteen long years.

Angela inhaled, closing her eyes as her heart settled into a normal rhythm of a peace she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“Look, Honey. The moon.”

She leaned her head back against his hard chest to peer up and was happy to be able to see the dim outline through the grit. “It’s a good sign.” She closed her eyes, didn’t move her head. “We need more of those.”

They smoked in silence, and Angela let the warmth and comfort of Marc’s body carry her away. She was safe with him, if only for this moment.

Her lashes fluttered when he slid an arm around her to pass the joint back. Caught up in the good moment, Marc couldn’t resist putting a soft kiss on her smooth cheek. “Never did I see such beauty, such courage, such passion, and such fear in her eyes. The lonely heart demands and the mind refuses, but the body, the core, pulses with need.”

He inhaled and passed, continuing to speak his heart’s poetry as they relaxed in clean jeans and matching Marine sweatshirts.

“Never did I see such hair. Dark as the night, and lips of love, red as a rose. A body that tempts me, begs me, and blue eyes that follow me into my dreams and beyond. Forgive me these careless slips of shameless flattery, for I cannot explain in mere words what you mean to me. Hold to the truth, to your heart, to love…to us.”

“It’s beautiful.” Angela let her head rest against his chin, pushing away the voice screaming of Kenn’s anger.

“It’s the way you make me feel, what you make me see. My life was so empty without you.”

Hers too. Other than her son, she’d had no one she could love or trust for a very long time, and when Marc wrapped his arms around her, she relaxed against him, the long day wearing her down.

“Don’t lie to yourself,”
her heart scolded, and she faced it this time, too aware of the man behind her to deny it. Brady was the only one who had ever understood her, what she needed. When he kissed her jaw again, she closed her eyes and said nothing to make him stop.

“You smell good,” he mumbled against her neck, sweet vanilla assaulting his senses. The feel of his lips on her skin sent an unexpected shiver of pleasure into her stomach.

“Are you cold?” he asked, tightening his arms around her.

Angela flushed, nodding so he would pull the blanket around them and make their innocent embrace more private, romantic.

Aware that things were going fast, knowing tomorrow she’d probably be standoffish again, Marc wrapped the quilt around them anyway, pulled another cover over their legs.

As he wrapped himself around her, she slipped her hand into his. Marc sucked in a breath at her movement, heart skipping at the feel of her, and they sat together in silence, both very aware of the other, yet content to just be so close.

The day caught up to her quickly. When Angela was asleep in his arms, Marc gently laid them down, pulled the covers up. He cradled her, loving every second of having her so close. As he buried his face in her hair, he placed a long, slow kiss to her neck that gave him chills and sent her eyes flying open.

Marc put his head down, forcing himself to stop despite how hard it (he) was.

“Night, Honey. See you in the morning.”

“Yes, you will,” she mumbled groggily, already falling back to sleep, and he joined her, the wolf at their feet. They would face their demons together when the time came.

Chapter Twenty Eight

March 19
^th
, 2013

1

Dillan and Dean made it to the filthy Slavers camp just before dawn, pulling three middle-aged (used up) women and a strikingly beautiful teenage girl behind their horses on long, tight, rawhide ropes. The females had all come from Kimball, Nebraska, where the brothers had spent a few days waiting out a dust storm.

Surrounded by a thick wall of mountains, the Slaver camp was a sprawling, unorganized mess of mud-splattered, bullet-ridden vehicles and torn, dusty tents camped across 287, just out of sight and sound of 25, and the next town.

There were burnt frames of cars around them and ranches with crushed mailboxes. One house was completely reduced to only a charred frame with anti-religious phrases sprayed on its sheds and outbuildings; targeted due to it being covered in Christmas decorations. The hundreds of statues and displays were riddled with bullet holes and melted by Molotov cocktails, but there had simply been too much to destroy all of it. Now, it stood as a warning: That world of rich, white excess was over.

Smoke swirled sharply with the wind from burned-down fires, and hordes of flies buzzed and landed, swarmed and resettled over the garbage dump just behind the camp, where small corpses lay rotting in the foggy drizzle. The females on the ropes didn’t react to these horrors as they stumbled by, concentrating only on moving their feet so they could draw another breath. The rawhide was constantly shrinking, rubbing away the skin on their necks until they were slowly choking all the time. Even rape was secondary to breathing.

The brothers came into the camp openly, not expecting to see guards – and they didn’t. Word had spread, and many of the places ahead of the Mexicans would probably already be abandoned by the time they got there. That would work in the twins’ favor. Empty towns meant no women or fun, and for these men, that might lose Cesar leadership if it went on long enough. They had an offer that would be to the Mexican leader’s advantage. Or so he would think, if they did this right.

They had made it over four hundred miles in two weeks, alternating driving, always on the move until they stopped near the Nebraska-Colorado state line to rest up and to pick up some females (peace offerings) for Cesar. His uncontested rule had given the Mexican a sense of power and control that few would be stupid (brave) enough to challenge and it was that strength they had come for.

Despite owing the Mexican their lives, Dean and Dillan felt no loyalty towards the mean little man. There was respect for his quick, brutal methods of control, but if not for their failure with the Witch, they likely would have never come back. It was one more thing they hated her for. They had been gone a long time and Cesar was unstable, making it hard to know how well they would be received. He might order them killed before they had a chance to make him the offer.

Very few of the passed out/sleeping Mexicans noticed their arrival and those who did, acknowledged them and ignored the bandages, ran a quick eye over the women, then averted their gazes. Word had also spread about the black brothers, and despite their long absence, now was clearly a bad time to draw their attention. Even the camp mutts, starving mixes of indecipherable origins, shied from them, and their menacing air.

Dean and Dillan walked around the back of the dirty camp, past the reeking, rusted semis. They shoved the cringing captives into the back of an empty one, locking them in. These were the holding pens for slaves, and there was no guard. Those already broken had no courage left to run, and those who were fresh wouldn’t make it far before every man in camp was on them. A loose slave was fair game.

With their noses full of the holding cells’ decay and the harsh odor of gasoline, the twins headed for the center of the muddy, stinking camp, certain they would find the leader there. His tent would be surrounded by his men so that if they were attacked, he wouldn’t be hit first. Cesar was smart, ruthless; and exactly what they needed.

The grungy green tent was indeed in the middle and it was one of only a few dozen vinyl shelters. Most of the men preferred the open sky above them after years of not seeing it at all from federal detention centers. It was also a lot easier to just wrap up in a blanket and sleep under a big truck.

From outside Cesar’s tent, the twins could see the Loveland, Colorado skyline, lit up with flames and thick, black smoke. Their eyes were drawn to the charred frame of the hulking jumbo jetliner resting in a thicket of piñon trees to the right of the burning town. Backdropped by a muddy, devastated landscape, covered in inches of reddish, ill-looking dust, the crushed plane was still more unbelievable than the destroyed city.

Loud snores were just audible over dogs yelping, women crying, and the pop of neglected campfires, but there was an instant silence as the twins slid inside the center lean-to…and then the sound of a gun being cocked.

“Who ees there?”

The smells of sex, blood, and violence mixed badly with the cigar smoke in the dark tent, and the cautious brothers stayed in the shadows so that there was no clear shot.

Their dark eyes lingered on the naked teenager chained to the center pole of the filthy tent like a dangerous, white dog. She was curled into a ball against it, showing a body they immediately wanted.

Jennifer felt it, tensing. Other than that, she didn’t move.

“We have an offer for you.”

“And an untouched gift.”

Cesar grunted in recognition, putting his weapon back under his pillow. When he yawned lazily, the twins grimaced in distaste as bad breath mixed with the other strong odors.

“So, you have returned. I did not think you would.”

A candle flared to life, giving them a better view of the Mexican and the thin, bloody girl at his feet whose swollen face and blood-crusted thighs said she had passed a rough night in Cesar's tent.

“What happened to you?” the slaver demanded, getting a look at their bandages as he pulled up his cruddy jeans. The material was tacky with dried blood - the girl's from the look of her. “Who attacked you?”

“A Witch,” the bald brothers answered together.

The lightly-bearded Slaver grinned hesitantly as he lit a cigar. Cesar had never really sure about these two, and he studied their faces while pulling on muddy boots. If not for the good work they had done for him in the past, he would kill them here and now. “A bruja?”

They nodded at the same time, dark eyes full of hatred. “Yes, magic.”

“Spells. A Witch.”

Cesar’s slanted eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what they could hope to gain from such a lie. When he found nothing, he let himself consider what it could do for him. He was no stranger to the occult and its mysteries, and if the twins were telling the truth, if they had found what the old world hadn’t, his plans to seed America with his bastards and control it through them would be unstoppable. “You have seen this?”